Prospective parents still fighting to adopt Russian orphans

February 06, 2014|By Bonnie Miller Rubin, Tribune reporter

Garrett and Heather Boehm spend some time with their adoptive son Alek, 7, at their Barrington home. The Boehms want to adopt another child from Russia, 2-year-old Anna, but the process was arrested by Russia’s decision to ban adoptions by U.S. parents. (José M. Osorio, Chicago Tribune)

Others seeking to adopt children from Russia may have lost faith or moved on, but for one Barrington couple, abandoning the toddler they already refer to as "our daughter" is unthinkable.

"There's a Russian saying that hope dies last ... and we're not giving up hope," Garrett Boehm Jr. said.

But a year after Russia imposed a ban on adoptions by Americans, he's also realistic. The Boehms are one of an estimated 230 U.S. families in 38 states who have already met, cuddled and bonded with children during trips to orphanages in Russia.

Since returning, Boehm and his wife, Heather, have made multiple trips to Washington, meeting with State Department and Russian officials. They have channeled their energy into petitions and pleas to lift the suspension, widely considered retaliation for a U.S. law imposing sanctions on Russian officials accused of human rights violations.

So, what now? Caught in a global political spat, with little evidence that Russia will soften its stance, do they stay the course or move on? After investing more than $45,000 and traveling some 5,600 miles to spend three days with Anna, now 2, do they put away her photos and start over with another country?

"It's hard," Boehm said. "She's sickly and has a tough time breathing. But she craved touch, whether it was from me or Heather. ... If she was given a loving home, she would thrive. This is political football, when it should be about little kids who deserve better."

If anything, relations between the United States and Russia have curdled even more in the past year, aggravated by everything from gay rights to the perceived mistreatment of Russian adoptees. Now, with the spotlight on the Sochi Olympics, families hope that the fate of 260 orphans will also grab some attention, said Boehm, an attorney.

The Boehms, both 40, met the toddler they named Anna in a Siberian orphanage on Thanksgiving weekend in 2012. The couple already had a positive experience five years earlier when they adopted their then-16-month-old son, Alek. Now they hoped to bring home a sibling.

"Alek asks us, 'When is Anna coming home?' We gradually had to tell him we just don't know. He'll ask: 'Why doesn't she get to come home, but I do?' You try explaining that to a 7-year-old," Boehm said.

It's no easier for Claire Concannon, 47, a single mom who lives in Chicago's Beverly neighborhood. Or Lara and Ed Nusbaum, of Naperville, ages 44 and 58, respectively, who sought to adopt two Russian brothers.

All had been vetted — including background checks, fingerprinting and home studies. Their dossiers had been stamped "approved" by the Russian government, and all had gone overseas to meet their "match." While they were waiting for court dates to make a return trip and finalize their adoptions, the plug was pulled Jan. 1, 2013.

Now, the cribs, car seats and toys have been returned. "The boys'bedroom is just storage," Lara Nusbaum said. "I can't even walk in."

Said Ed Nusbaum: "With the Olympics, if these two countries can work together to support athletes, they can do it for children."

It wasn't always that way. Since 2000, Americans have brought home about 41,500 orphans from Russia, which quickly joined China and Ethiopia as a country from which U.S. families typically adopt children. Unlike the U.S. foster care system in which it can take years to terminate biological parental rights and many of the children are older, these countries offered babies with shorter waits.

Nationwide, many adoption providers had robust Russian programs, including The Cradle in Evanston, which placed 78 Russian children with U.S. families in 2006. But even in the best of times, navigating the Russian bureaucracy became increasingly difficult. The kids often differed in age from their birth records, and many had special needs, especially related to fetal alcohol spectrum disorders.

Moreover, the cost of adoption was hitting the $50,000 mark, which included multiple trips for extended stays, interpreters and other fees. The cost was out of reach for most Cradle families, President Julie Tye said. In 2009 — four years before the ban — the agency terminated its Russian adoption program.

"It was a tough decision for our staff and for our board," Tye said. "We saw adoption as a great opportunity for these kids ... and a mission that we wanted to pursue. But we just couldn't."

In recent years, the Russians' mistrust of Americans increased, too. The 2010 headlines swirling around the Tennessee mom who sent her 7-year-old son back to his native country alone, along with the 2008 death of a Virginia toddler adopted from Russia and mistakenly left in a hot car, didn't help.

Finally, the story of adoptee Max Shatto, a 3-year-old fatally injured in his Texas backyard while his mother ran into the house to use the bathroom, was all Russian officials needed to show Americans are unfit to raise their offspring.